by Mark Anthony
“No,” Grace murmured. “Oh, no.”
All along the length of the hall, on either side, crimson light flickered to life in the eyes of the statues—not two of them this time, but all—twenty or more. Dust clouded the air as the statues stirred, swinging stone arms and legs, turning ancient faces toward the intruders. The floor shook as they stepped down from their pedestals.
Travis pushed Grace aside as one of the male statues bore down on him, falcon beak clicking. It opened its gigantic hand, grabbing for Travis. Stone fingers, each as thick as a tree trunk, began to close around him. He rubbed his hand against them, smearing them with blood. The blood vanished, and the stone fingers ceased moving. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and out of the hand, then leaped away, hitting the floor and rolling.
He lay stunned for a moment, listening to the crash of breaking stone behind him. Had the statue turned to fight the others? A high-pitched scream jolted him out of his stupor. It was Nim. He lurched to his feet, and pain sparkled in his ribs. He turned around to see what was happening.
Then he froze. Ti’an stood before him. Her golden body shone through her beaded garment, as if she were clad only in light. He could see the curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, and the darker bronze of her nipples. Again fire surged in him, and he could not move. The shouts and noise of breaking stone faded to a dull roar in his ears.
Ti’an tilted her head—he was by far the taller—to look at him. Her face was expressionless, a thing of flawless beauty forged of gold. However, in her eyes smoldered an ancient fury. She reached for him, to draw his head down close to hers . . .
With the last shred of his will, Travis flung his hand up in a warding gesture and stepped back. Blood flew from his wounded knuckles, spattering her outstretched hand. Ti’an paused, gazing at the red droplets on her finger. Then, languorously, she brought her finger to her mouth, touching the drop of Travis’s blood to her lips.
Ti’an’s onyx eyes went wide. A shudder passed through her, rippling her garment. Then a new light shone in her gaze—not fury but something fiercer, hungrier. Her full lips parted to reveal white, pointed teeth.
“My husband,” she said, and before he could move, Ti’an reached out and pressed a hand against Travis’s chest.
Her hand seemed to burn through the cloth of his serafi, and through skin, muscle, and bone as well, so that it felt as if she was touching his heart, wrapping her fingers around it, setting it afire. The sounds of the struggle behind Travis faded, replaced by a rhythmic drone. He was aware of shadows moving on the edge of his vision, some large, some small. It almost seemed he recognized one of them.
Grace? he tried to say. He started to glance toward a woman who had stumbled to the floor while a massive shape loomed above her.
A hot finger touched his chin, turning his head with inexorable strength. Ti’an’s face filled his gaze, and he could see nothing else. Her finger traced a smoldering line down his throat, his chest, his stomach.
The heat burned in him now like a sun in his chest. A sweat of desire slicked his skin, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. Her beads shifted as she moved, and he caught a glimpse of the triangle between her legs, dark with mystery. He felt his body stir, wishing nothing else than to become one with her. All other thoughts fled him. He moved close to her, bending his head, wanting to join his mouth to hers.
“Not yet,” she said, her voice like sharp music, pushing him back with irresistible strength.
For a moment Travis felt an anguish such as he had never known. How could she spurn him? He would rather die than not have her. Then his pain was forgotten as she took his hand in her own, her slender fingers closing around his in a viselike grip.
“Come,” Ti’an said.
And forgetting the dim, struggling shadows behind him, Travis followed.
41.
The floor heaved as one of the gigantic statues struck with its fists, and Grace fell hard to her knees. The taste of blood filled her mouth; her teeth had clamped down on her tongue. She tried to get up, but the floor kept bucking and rolling like an angry sea.
“Travis, stop!” a voice cried out. It was Vani.
Grace managed to look up. Ti’an stood before Travis, gold skin gleaming. He was making no effort to run from her, but was instead staring with a rapt expression. As Grace watched, he took her hand, and together they began to walk toward the steps at the far end of the hall. The statues, many of them just stepping off their pedestals as they awoke, lumbered out of the pair’s way as if in deference to their mistress—or was it their master—then moved to join the others in the attack.
Grace stared after them. Why hasn’t she kissed him like she did Avhir? What’s she doing with him? Then, with a jolt of dread, she realized where it was Ti’an must be leading him. She’s taking him to the throne room.
Before she could consider what that meant, a shadow fell over Grace. She looked up, and rational thought fled her. A statue loomed above her, its multifaceted eyes glowing crimson. It bent down, reaching for her . . .
Strong hands grabbed Grace’s serafi, dragging her to her feet, pulling her out of the way. The statue’s fingers closed on thin air. It rose up, opening its mouth to let out a soundless cry of fury. Grace turned around and gazed into Farr’s grim, handsome face. He opened his mouth as if to say something.
Grace’s eyes grew large. “Run!” she shouted, grabbing his hand and pulling him to one side as another statue reached for them. They sidestepped a blow from the female statue that had tried to crush Grace, then ducked between the legs of one of the falcon-beaked men. They made it to the wall and pressed their backs against it, panting.
They’re big and slow, Grace. If we just keep moving, they won’t be able to get us.
Certainly they could not touch Vani. Holding Nim tight, the T’gol moved so quickly her outline blurred, slipping in and out among the statues. She paused a moment, deliberately drawing one of the statues toward her. Then, as it bore down on her, she seemed to vanish; the statue collided with another. Stone arms broke off at the shoulder; a head toppled to the floor, cracking open like a melon. The statues collapsed in a jumble of stone, and a cloud of dust rose into the air, illuminated by shafts of sunlight from above.
“Larad!” Farr shouted. “Use the Imsari!”
The Runelord could not move as swiftly as Vani, and he had been caught between two approaching statues. He fumbled with the iron box that contained the Stones, but then his gray robe tangled around his ankles and he fell to his knees. The box tumbled to the floor.
Operating on instinct, Grace reached out with the Touch. However, there was nothing to reach out to. The statues were not alive; they had no threads. And the strands of the others were only the faintest wisps shining in her mind, far too delicate to grasp. Her magic was no use. She looked at Farr, but he shook his head. Blood sorcery was as weak as witchcraft; he was powerless as well. She gripped Farr’s arm as the two statues bent over, reaching for Larad.
With a loud crack, the heads of the two statues collided with one another. The colossi stumbled back, away from Larad. The Runelord gaped for a moment, perhaps astonished he was still alive, then he scrambled on his hands and knees, reaching for the box. He opened it, drew out one of the Stones, and held it high.
“Sar!”
A gray-green flash. The two statues stiffened and went still. For a moment they rocked back and forth, then they toppled over, crashing against one of the spider-eyed females. All three smashed against the floor.
You did it, Master Larad! she tried to send the words across the Weirding to him.
Grace wasn’t certain he had gotten the message, but he staggered to his feet and looked at her, a satisfied expression on his scarred face. However, the reprieve was brief. More statues had lumbered toward them. There were still over a dozen of them, and they were coming all at once. One seemed to notice Grace and Farr leaning against the wall. It lurched toward them, falcon beak clicking, and they were forced to ru
n.
“We must flee back into the dome!” Vani shouted. She seemed to blink out of existence as one of the statues swiped at her, then reappeared behind it. “If we retreat over one of the bridges, they will not be able to follow. The spans are too slender.”
Energy surged in Grace. Yes, that was where they had to go. That was where Ti’an had taken Travis.
“Come on,” she hissed to Farr and started running.
Though not as swift as the T’gol, they were able to dodge past the statues that lumbered toward them. In moments, both Grace and Farr were past the statues, as was Vani.
“Sar!” Larad chanted again, his voice ragged, holding Sinfathisar aloft. The Stone flared with gray-green light, and another statue ceased moving. It fell with a boom!
Why do the Imsari still work when other magic doesn’t? Grace wondered, her logical mind operating despite her fear. She didn’t know, but she was glad Larad was still able to wield the Great Stones. The Weirding had faded to a wisp of what it had been, an old cobweb in a corner, and Farr was no longer able to call the morndari to him; blood sorcery had ceased functioning as well.
Then why was Ti’an able to animate the statues? the scientist in her asked, still pressing for answers. She didn’t know, except . . .
Ti’an drank directly of Orú’s blood, and Orú was the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived. The Imsari are incredibly powerful as well, and incredibly ancient.
It made sense that the oldest magics would be the last to go: those powers that were deepest, and closest to the source of all magic. Except they would still fade, wouldn’t they? The rifts in the heavens would keep growing, and soon even the eldest magics would cease functioning.
There was no time to think about it. Larad turned and ran, catching up to them. The statues reacted slowly to this change in tactics. They milled about in a tight knot, colliding with one another, knocking chips of stone off their bodies. Then, one by one, they turned around, eyes flaring crimson, and started after their prey.
Vani led the way across the hall, Grace and Farr just behind, followed by Larad. When they reached the foot of the steps that led up to the arch, Vani hesitated. Avhir’s shriveled body still lay there on the floor.
Grace thought of his bronze eyes and how they would never shine again. Avhir had feared kindness, and in the end a kiss had killed him. “He’s dead,” she said. “Just like Ky—”
“Do not speak them!” Vani flung the words at Grace like knives. “Do not dare to speak those names!”
Grace bit down on her tongue. Vani’s face was hard and ashen, but her gold eyes were dry. She started up the steps, Nim in her arms. The others followed.
Vani was right, Grace thought. Kylees and Avhir were words that no longer had meaning. But Travis still meant something; Grace had to believe that. Because if Travis was gone, then there would be no one to speak the Last Rune. There would be no one to stop all words, all names—and all the things they stood for—from ceasing to be.
Panting, they bounded up the last of the steps. The arch flashed by, the dome soared above them. The beams that shafted down from the high windows were red as copper, like rays from a dying sun.
Larad glanced over his shoulder. “The statues are still coming. They’re right behind us.”
“The bridge!” Vani shouted.
They had reached the nearest of the slender spans that arched over the void, toward the tetrahedron of gold that seemed to float in the darkness. Vani led the way, holding Nim. Larad started to pull back, to let Grace go first, but this was no time for courtly deference. She pushed him forward, then followed on his heels. The void yawned to either side; it seemed to suck at her. She forced herself to gaze at the center of Larad’s back.
“Hurry!” Farr shouted behind her. “If the statues reach the bridge while we’re still in the middle—”
The span trembled beneath Grace’s feet, vibrating like a piano wire. She didn’t look back, but she could picture what was happening: the first of the colossi setting foot on the bridge.
Vani had reached the platform on the far side. She turned around, and Nim’s eyes became circles of fear. The bridge shook again, and Grace’s foot skidded off one edge. She would have fallen if Farr hadn’t grabbed her from behind. Larad tripped on his robe, but he had reached the end of the span and fell to his knees next to Vani. Grace clenched her teeth. Just a few more feet . . .
The bridge gave a violent jerk. Grace no longer felt stone beneath her feet. She was going to fall.
A weight struck her from behind—hard. Farr’s arms wrapped around her. They flew through space, then tumbled onto the platform.
Grace rolled to a stop on her side, cheek against stone. Her jarred vision cleared in time to see the two halves of the bridge tilt downward. With a loud crack! they broke free. Three statues toppled like tin soldiers, arms waving stiffly as they plunged into the void. The pieces of the bridge followed. There was one last flicker of crimson, then blackness swallowed them all.
Ten statues milled about on the far edge of the abyss, eyes flickering, their stone minds too dull to determine how to follow their prey. One of them strayed too close to the edge and toppled over. The others seemed not to notice.
Grace realized that Farr was still holding her tight in his arms. She did not resist. It felt good to believe she could be held that way by him, if only for a moment. Then, slowly, she pulled away. He let her go.
“Is everyone all right?” she said, standing. It was a ridiculous question. None of them were all right, not after that. However, Farr and Larad picked themselves up, and Vani nodded.
“Statues shouldn’t be able to move,” Nim said, her round face solemn.
Grace couldn’t disagree. She turned around. Now that they were close to it, she could see that the golden tetrahedron was indeed large, over fifty feet on a side. The triangular door seemed to be open, but she could see only darkness within. It took her fragmented thoughts a moment to re-form, then she remembered what they had to do. She started toward the door.
Farr grabbed her arm. “You can’t go in there.”
She did not speak. Instead, she simply looked at him. He jerked his hand back as if stung.
“All the stories say it’s death for us to enter,” he added weakly.
Grace took another step toward the door. “We have to. That’s where she took Travis.”
Nim wriggled from Vani’s arms, slipping to the floor. “He is Fateless,” the T’gol said. “His kind may enter there.”
“What about her?” Larad nodded toward Nim. “Can’t she enter there as well? Can’t she open the way for us?”
Vani shot the Runelord a black look. “She is a child, not a tool. You cannot simply use her!”
“Like you used her to return to Earth?” Grace said, her voice scalpel-cool. She had not meant the words to cut, but by the way Vani flinched they had, and deeply.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Nim said. There was no longer fear in her small voice. “I want to go in. I want to find my father.”
Vani seemed beyond speech. She made no effort to stop Nim as the girl moved past Grace, to the door.
Farr made a sharp motion with his hand. “Stay close to her. It’s our only chance. If she is truly a nexus, then the threads of fate will untangle in her presence.”
“And if she’s not?” Larad said, raising an eyebrow.
“Then our own fates will be crushed, and cease to be.”
Grace tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Only a dead man has no fate, Vani’s al-Mama had said to her. Two times Travis had died and been reborn: once in the fires of Krondisar, and again in the desert outside Morindu. That was why he was A’narai.
And what about you, Grace? Will you be reborn if you die in there?
She doubted it.
Nim stepped into the triangle of darkness. The others followed in a tight knot: first Grace, then Farr and Larad, and finally Vani. For a moment Grace feared she was lost. The darkness closed around her. She coul
d see nothing, feel nothing. A scream rose in her throat, but she had no mouth with which to give it voice. She was the flame on a candle. The darkness constricted around her, a dark hand to snuff her out.
“This way,” said a small voice in the darkness. Nim.
Grace felt herself being pulled as if by a string tied around her middle. Then the darkness vanished, replaced by a golden radiance. A shuddering breath filled her lungs. She was alive.
So were the others. Larad stood next to her, looking astonished and vaguely ill. Farr was gazing around them with a look of fascination on his face, but Vani’s eyes were locked on something straight ahead. Nim took a step forward, holding out her small hands.
“Father!”
It took Grace’s dizzied mind a long moment to take everything in. They stood along one wall of a large, three-sided room. Triangular doors were cut into each of the other walls; the other two bridges were visible beyond them. The chamber’s walls were carved with countless symbols, and they tilted in as they soared upward, meeting overhead in a single point from which the red-gold radiance emanated. The room was capped by a crystalline prism. The prism must catch some of the beams of light that spilled through the windows in the dome outside, Grace thought, focusing them and bringing them inside.
In the center of the chamber was a dais: three-sided like the room with several steps leading up to it. On the dais rested a chair made of gold, its back shaped like a gigantic spider. In the chair sat a figure. Iron shackles bound his arms and feet to the chair, but there was no point to them.
The man on the throne was dead.
The body had shriveled to a desiccated husk eons ago. The arms and legs were no more than bones held together by dried tendons like old twine. Papery skin peeled away from bare ribs. What might once have been a royal robe of crimson was reduced to a few shreds dangling from sharp shoulders. The skull leaned back against the throne, yellowed teeth bared in a fleshless grin, empty sockets staring.
A hiss, like that of an angry cat, drew Grace’s gaze downward. Ti’an knelt on one of the broad steps before the dais. Below her, lying on the dark stone, was Travis. His serafi lay crumpled on a lower step, and he was naked save for a short linen kilt. She had anointed him with oil, and his skin gleamed in the metallic light, taut over sculpted muscle. He was beautiful—far more so than when Grace had first met him years ago—as if he was a statue himself, formed of gold.
